Why is a Raven like a Writing-Desk?
by Dreams.Written.In.The.Stars
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was a logical man who didn't believe in nonsensical things like witches and magic. Which is why Hermione Granger came as such a surprise... other than the fact that he ended up falling in love with her, of course. That too came as rather a surprise. Sherlock/Hermione.
1. I: How Do You Feel About the Violin?

**Disclaimer: **I don't own BBC's _Sherlock_ (or any other adaptation, for that matter) nor do I own JKR's _Harry Potter_.

**Story Title: **Why is a Raven like a Writing-Desk?

**Chapter Title: **How Do You Feel About the Violin?

**Summary: **Sherlock Holmes was a logical man who didn't believe in nonsensical things like witches and magic. Which is why Hermione Granger came as such a surprise… other than the fact that he ended up falling in love with her, of course. That was rather surprising too. Sherlock/Hermione.

**Rated: M **(though this doesn't kick in until later chapters)

**Timeline: **This starts in May, 2010, which according to _John Watson's Blog_ is between the pool scene with Moriarty and meeting Irene Adler. In terms of the Harry Potter universe, this obviously is set several years after the end of the war. Like, twelve years after. Which actually brought me to the realization that Sherlock and Hermione are about the same age.

**Title Inspiration: **If you don't know that the quote 'Why is a raven like a writing-desk?' comes from Lewis Carroll's _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_, then shame on you!

**AN: **I realize that some of you probably came to check this out because you're indignant about me uploading a new story instead of updating 'A Thousand Years'. ATY is not being given up or put on hiatus, or anything like that. I'm just having writer's block. I've also had a rough time of it because a friend of mine died just after Christmas, and… I don't know, I guess I just felt the need to start something fresh. So, no fear, I haven't forgotten about it. I just needed a short break.

**And that is the end of my ridiculously long intro! Please read and review!**

.:~{+}~:.

**I: How Do You Feel About the Violin?**

.:~{+}~:.

The crisp pages of _The Daily Prophet_ made a loud 'SNAP' as Hermione turned them with frustration. Even now, though she was a grown woman of thirty and Rita Skeeter had long since been released from their employ, she still felt some lingering adolescent resentment towards the paper. It was a necessary evil, however, if she wanted to look at places for rent and manage to move out of her parents' house.

_Merlin, thirty years old and back at home_… she thought morosely.

"There's no shame in it, Hermione," Ginny commented absent-mindedly, rather more focused on wiping milk off of Lily's chin. The two-year-old wasn't having any of it, whining as she turned her head away, tears gathering in her bright brown eyes and her face turning as red as her hair, the warning signs of an on-coming screaming fit.

Hermione's brow furrowed. "Pardon?" She'd spoken her thoughts aloud, hadn't she?

"Living at home again for a bit. There's no shame in it. You've just had a truly horrendous break up, and it's only while you get back on your feet. Lily, _be still_."

There was an indignant huff that came from the toddler, and a few tears escaped her eyes, falling down her chubby cheeks, but ultimately she responded to the authoritative tone of her mother's voice. Within seconds the milk was wiped and Lily was free to go back to splashing her porridge about.

Hermione sighed. "I know that logically, it's just- this is the second time I've done this, you know? Run back home after a bad break up. I just feel like… like I shouldn't still be so dependent on them."

Ginny hummed in response, casting a cleaning spell on the towel that had previously de-milked Lily. Tossing it onto the counter behind her, she shrugged at Hermione. "I don't think you're dependent at all. Merlin, you have to be the most _in_dependent person I've ever met! And the first time you went back home didn't really count. You were twenty-five. You were still getting your life together, you and Ron had just got a divorce! It was practically expected you move back in with your parents. As for this time- well, it was _Oliver's_ flat, wasn't it? And you know we'd love to have you, Hermione, but Harry and I just don't-"

"Oh, no, no, Ginny, don't worry about it, I completely understand! I'm just grateful that you let me stay last night."

And she really did understand, she thought as Ginny stomped to the base of the stairs and screeched about how she'd called James and Albus down to breakfast ten minutes ago and how they'd _better_ not make her come and get them. Harry had made the decision shortly after the war to leave the cottage in Godric's Hollow where he'd spent the first year of his life as a memorial to the sacrifice that his parents had made, but that hadn't stopped him and Ginny from moving into the neighbourhood when the redhead graduated in 1999. Over the next eleven years, the two had turned their house into a home and had filled it with three beautiful children.

And it was because of those three beautiful children that Harry and Ginny were really far too busy to take on a permanent house guest. Really, Hermione was just thankful that they offered her the couch whenever tensions ran too high with her parents. Hermione adored her parents, she really did, but ever since she obliviated them during the war, there had been an irreversible power shift, and it was never more blatant than when she was living at home.

Ginny came back into the kitchen muttering about how she hated it when Harry had to leave for the office early. There were two sleepy boys trailing behind her, seven-year-old James and Albus, who was three, but very insistent that he'd be four next month, thank you very much. Hermione searched advertisements for a flat with increasing desperation as Ginny placed breakfast in front of the boys. Albus rubbed his green eyes with a sleepy 'thank you' while James attacked his food as if he'd never eaten before.

Ginny picked up Lily's bowl as it became clear that she'd become less interested in eating and more interested in making a mess. Lily's look of absolute despair made Hermione wary of an approaching storm but Ginny, who Hermione was absolutely certain must be some sort of super-mum, managed to divert the crisis by handing her daughter a spoon. For reasons that eluded Hermione, Lily absolutely _loved_ spoons.

"Nothing, absolutely nothing!" Hermione growled with frustration, slamming the paper down onto the table. Lily became startled and dropped the spoon, immediately beginning to cry. Hermione quickly got up and retrieved it, giving it back to the little girl. "I'm sorry, Lily-bug," she said, kissing one cherub cheek. Lily giggled and gave Hermione a noisy, slobbery kiss in return.

"By nothing, I assume you mean no flats?" Ginny asked sympathetically.

"Your assumption would be correct," Hermione groaned, straightening from her spot beside Lily.

Ginny grimaced in sympathy. "Well, I'm sure something will turn up."

Hermione nodded as she moved in to hug the redhead. "I have to go now, you know how Mafalda gets when I'm late. But thank you again for letting me spend the night."

Ginny waved a hand flippantly. "Don't worry about it, Hermione. I actually wish you could stay longer, help me get these three devils to my mum's before work."

Albus heard and sent a wounded look in his mother's direction, but James' expression beside him was so pleased at being called a devil that both women laughed.

It was moments like these that made Hermione believe that things really would be okay someday.

.:~{+}~:.

When Hermione had first started working for the Ministry of Magic at the young age of eighteen, she was determined to work towards the rights of magical creatures. She'd never been able to pinpoint whether it was due to her hard work or her title as a war heroine, but within a year of starting at the ministry, she'd made the working conditions of house elves infinitely better, ensured that werewolves had easy access to Wolfsbane, and had provided centaurs basic rights. By this time of course, she and Ron were engaged to be married, and as he was training to be an Auror alongside Harry, she decided to move to law enforcement in order to be closer to him.

Of course, her marriage had fallen apart when she was twenty-five. Ron was desperate for children, and while Hermione certainly didn't mind the idea of children, his timing had been deplorable. She had been at a stage in her career where she was just about to break through into something brilliant, and if she'd taken the time off to have a child at that specific point in time, she'd have forevermore been seen as a mother first, and a capable employee second. Ron had been unable to understand her desire to put her career first, and in the heat of the moment had called her a 'heartless, barren bitch'.

The divorce papers had been signed rather quickly after that.

Hermione supposed it had been a blessing in disguise. The issue of children had been the straw that broke the camel's back, but it had been far from their only problem. They seemed to fight about _everything_, and not in the passionate, all-consuming, I-love-you-so-much-let's-have-make-up-sex-now kind of way. More like in the, I'll-scream-in-your-face-and-stomp-about-slamming-doors-until-I-get-my-point-across-and-then-ignore-you-for-several-consecutive-days kind of way. At least they managed to get out of the marriage early enough that they could hold on to some semblance of the friendship that they'd had before their mess of a relationship.

Ron had gone on to marry Luna Lovegood, which had surprised Hermione, as the girl was the very opposite of her, but, considering how she and Ron had turned out, perhaps that was a good thing. Hermione had climbed the career ladder successfully and last year had become the youngest member of the Wizengamot. It was an accomplishment that Hermione was more than proud of, especially as she felt that even as just one person, her new position of power could prevent unjustices like the ones that had befallen Harry from affecting others. That did not however change the fact that when she wasn't changing lives for the better, she was doing an extraordinary amount of paperwork.

And so when she arrived to her childhood home that night after a day of paper-pushing, she was rather surprised to see the familiar face of a family friend sat on the sofa, chatting happily away to her parents.

"Mrs Hudson!" she exclaimed in surprise.

Hermione's parents, Marcus and Jean Granger, had attended Oxford with Richard Hudson, who had been Hermione's godfather. He featured in a good deal of her childhood memories before that fateful letter arrived on her eleventh birthday- and how incredibly good he'd been at hiding his true nature. He'd married Martha when Hermione was seven, and she'd been shocked to learn, shortly after her and Ron's divorce, that not only had he been an abusive husband, but after the Hudsons' move to Florida, he'd also become deeply involved in a drug cartel.

Presently, Mrs Hudson sent a beaming smile Hermione's way, opening her arms wide. Hermione walked into them for a warm hug as the older woman stroked her wild curls.

"Oh, Hermione, I haven't seen you in absolutely ages! How've you been, love? Your parents say you're looking for a flat? I was so sorry to hear you broke up with that boy- he was quite the hunk, wasn't he?" Mrs Hudson giggled as Hermione blushed red in embarrassment.

"Yes, I am looking for a flat," she replied, glossing over Mrs Hudson's last comment.

"Ooh, I was hoping you'd say you were still looking! I've got a flat free! I've just renovated the basement in my building, you see."

Hermione stared at Mrs Hudson as though she were an angel sent down from Heaven. "Really?" she asked, trying not to sound excessively overjoyed. Her parents were still observing the exchange, and she didn't want it to seem as though she were desperate to escape them.

"Oh, yes dear. Tell me, how do you feel about the violin?" Mrs Hudson asked, still smiling widely.

"I- uh… it's alright?" Hermione asked, feeling as though she had missed something.

"Only Sherlock does like to play it at all hours, the impossible man," Mrs Hudson said with a fond roll of her eyes.

"Sherlock…?" Hermione asked.

"Oh, yes dear. Sherlock and John live in the flat above. Would the violin bother you? He plays it in the middle of the night, you know."

Hermione smiled, knowing she could just cast a silencing charm and not even have to listen to the man's violin playing. "I'm sure it won't be a problem Mrs Hudson."

"Oh, this is so exciting! You know, I always wished I'd got to see you more often, but you went off to that boarding school and then you got married so young and you were terribly caught up in your work… but now we'll see each other all the time!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, pulling Hermione in for another hug.

Over her shoulder, Hermione could see her parents exchange glances at the mention of 'that boarding school'. The decision had been made shortly after confirming that she'd be attending Hogwarts that no one outside the immediate family should be told that she was a witch, so that not even Mrs Hudson knew that Hermione had spent seven years of her life learning witchcraft.

Hermione pulled back from the hug, smiling widely at Mrs Hudson.

"So, when can I move in?"

.:~{+}~:.

Hermione felt infinitely better, crawling into bed that night, knowing that soon she'd be living at 221C Baker Street, out of her parents' hair. She smiled as she reached over to the bedside table and picked up her favourite book since childhood, Lewis Carroll's _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_, feeling the same satisfaction she'd always felt after solving a particularly difficult Arithmancy equation in school.

She opened the book at the page where she'd left off, and began to read, being pulled into Alice's magnificent dream world.

"_You should learn not to make such personal remarks," Alice said with some severity: "it's very rude."_

_The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?"_

.:~{+}~:.

**I would completely and utterly love it if you could review and tell me whether or not that was complete and total crap.**


	2. II: The Name's Sherlock Holmes

**Disclaimer: **I don't any _Sherlock_ adaptations, I don't own _Harry Potter_, and I should have mentioned in the last chapter that I also don't own _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_.

**Story Title: **Why is a Raven like a Writing-Desk?

**Chapter Title: **The Name's Sherlock Holmes

**Summary: **Sherlock Holmes was a logical man who didn't believe in nonsensical things like witches and magic. Which is why Hermione Granger came as such a surprise… then there was also the fact that he ended up falling in love with her, of course. That too was rather surprising. Sherlock/Hermione.

**Timeline: **We're still in May, 2010, guys. Hermione's got to get all situated in her new home. You'll be happy to know that John and Sherlock make their first appearances in this chapter!

**Title Inspiration: **Fun fact- I endeavour to take all chapter titles from quotes on _Sherlock_. I suppose if I really can't find a suitable one for a particular chapter (unlikely, considering we have thirteen and a half hours of footage) then I could take a quote from _Harry Potter_, but I prefer continuity. Last chapter's title was from the episode _A Study in Pink_, as is this chapter's!

**AN: **Okay, wow. This fanfic kind of exploded. I don't think I've ever gotten a response so quickly. I was totally prepared to be underwhelmed because I understand that crossovers are kind of like a little sub-genre, but just wow.

**I did not expect such an incredible response. Thank you so much for all the reviews, favs and follows- they really motivated me to get this chapter out.**

.:~{+}~:.

**II: The Name's Sherlock Holmes**

.:~{+}~:.

The loud 'CRACK' of apparition could be heard all along Baker Street. Muggles looked about in confusion for the source of the noise, eventually shrugging it off as the backfiring of a car.

In a side alley, Hermione Granger was doing a quick inventory of all her parts. She felt no pain, but that didn't mean she hadn't splinched an eyebrow, for example.

Satisfied that she was all there, she emerged from the darkness and out onto the street, a little beaded bag bouncing against her hip with each step. The sounds of London traffic immediately greeted her. She supposed that living among Muggles as she was now, she'd have to get used to taking public transport more often, but she hadn't been able to face the delay today, not when all she wanted was to be moved in and finally start her new life, without _Oliver bloody Wood_.

She continued along the pavement until she came to a dark door next to _Speedy's Sandwich Shop_ labelled 221. There was a heavy gold knocker resting crookedly on the door and she reached out to straighten it before knocking. She could hear footsteps approaching the door from inside and she hastily checked her left forearm one last time, making sure the glamour charm was still in place. Bellatrix and her enchanted knife. The magical nature of the weapon guaranteed that the scars would never fade, and also ensured that glamour charms attempting to hide the lettering were too weak to fool witches and wizards.

They did, however, work spectacularly well at hiding the ugly, scarred mess of 'mudblood' from most Muggles.

Mrs Hudson opened the door and smiled widely, pulling Hermione in for a hug.

"There you are, dear, I wondered when you'd come. You never said what time!"

"Didn't I?" Hermione asked, slightly embarrassed at her lack of manners. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to leave you in the dark."

Mrs Hudson waved a hand. "Oh, nonsense, love, you're here now."

Her new landlady peeked over Hermione's shoulder and out onto the street behind her. "Did you not bring any of your things, love?"

Hermione blushed, subconsciously patting her beaded bag. Yes, she'd definitely have to start doing more things the Muggle way. "I'm, uh, getting them delivered later."

Mrs Hudson accepted this easily enough, and led Hermione in through the door, chatting all the while. Hermione listened with half an ear, inspecting the interior. She was in a fairly narrow hallway, Victorian in style, if the dark wood and floral wallpaper were anything to go by. Mrs Hudson gestured to the stairs on the left.

"That goes up into John and Sherlock's flat. You'll meet them later, they're out right now. Oh, those two, always dashing about, busy with something or other. Sherlock works with the police, you know!"

Hermione raised her eyebrows, looking from the staircase back to Mrs Hudson. "Does he? Is he an officer, then?"

Mrs Hudson threw back her head and laughed as though Hermione had said something very funny. The joke, whatever it may be, was quite lost on the witch, and she merely stood there with a curious expression on her face while Mrs Hudson calmed herself.

"Oh no, dear, no. The police come to him for help with difficult cases. He's ever so clever, Sherlock is."

Hermione nodded, still not understanding exactly what it was that this Sherlock did, but she supposed she could always ask him when she met him. Mrs Hudson began to lead her down the hallway, stopping at a door beneath the stairs leading up to John and Sherlock's flat.

Mrs Hudson pointed to the open kitchen across from the door. "That's my kitchen, and that door next to the fridge leads into my flat, if you ever need to find me."

Hermione nodded as Mrs Hudson opened the door beneath the stairs. "And this is your flat, dear!"

They walked down a short staircase and into a sitting area. Casting her eye about, Hermione saw that the kitchen was to the left and on the right side of the sitting area were three doors.

Mrs Hudson saw where Hermione was looking.

"The door on the left is the master, and the right's a guest room, and your bathroom's right there, in the middle."

Hermione nodded again, still looking around, but feeling very pleased. It came furnished, the style simple and elegant which was very much to Hermione's tastes. Despite the fact that it was a basement flat, Mrs Hudson had painted the walls in creamy, neutral tones and had gone with softer lighting than the florescent glare that Hermione had braced herself for.

"I like it," she found herself saying softly. "It's quite homey, isn't it?"

Mrs Hudson smiled widely. "Oh, I'm so glad! You'll just love it here, Hermione, I know it! Oh, I have to go and tell Mrs Turner next door, she wanted to know all about how you were settling in."

Hermione smiled to herself, remembering how as a child she'd always known everything about the Hudson's neighbours simply by virtue of Mrs Hudson being such a terrible gossip. Hermione had always been so disparaging in her Hogwarts years about girls like Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, girls who were ever so flighty and gossiped ever so much, but, looking back, she'd been rather a hypocrite, hadn't she? Her own gossiping had never been as overt as theirs, but that was likely because her two best friends had been boys. And it was a trait that she'd emulated from Mrs Hudson.

And really, there was nothing wrong with _knowing _things about people, was there?

Once she was quite sure that Mrs Hudson would be away for a while, Hermione began to unpack the contents of her beaded bag.

.:~{+}~:.

An hour later, Mrs Hudson knocked and opened the door with a 'hoo hoo'. "Hermione, dear, I just wanted to see how you were getting on-"

She stopped speaking abruptly, her eyes widening in surprise as she looked at Hermione's possessions strewn about. The most prominent feature by far was all of the books. Both of the bookshelves that Mrs Hudson had provided were stuffed to the absolute brim. The other three bookshelves that Hermione had brought with her were in a similar state. But even that wasn't enough for all of Hermione's books. There were books on the coffee table, on the end tables by the couch, on the kitchen table, stacked in crooked piles that hugged the walls of the sitting room, books shoved into corners, books _everywhere_.

"Oh, goodness me! I forgot how much you like to read, dear. I thought you said your things were getting delivered later?"

Hermione looked up the short flight of stairs to where Mrs Hudson stood in her doorway. Widening her eyes, she attempted to look as innocent as possible.

"Oh, but my things _did_ get delivered, Mrs Hudson. Didn't you notice?"

Mrs Hudson looked about the room again, confused. "No, I didn't notice. Oh, how odd!"

Hermione laughed, a slight nervous edge to it. "Yes, how very odd indeed."

"Oh, it must be my age getting the better of me. I'm getting old now, you know."

Hermione plastered a smile on her face. Yes, she definitely needed to start doing some things the Muggle way.

.:~{+}~:.

Later, Hermione was sitting in Mrs Hudson's kitchen with a lovely cup of tea, getting reacquainted with the woman who she'd adored as a child. After she started at Hogwarts, Hermione had only seen Mrs Hudson a sum total of four times. Once during the summer holidays when she was fifteen. Then again just after the war had finished and Hermione had retrieved her parents from Australia. Mrs Hudson had then been a guest at Hermione and Ron's wedding- he had not been pleased about having to hide his magic on his wedding day for the sake of the muggles in attendance. When one added in the fact that the whole Weasley family, extended relatives and all had been in attendance, Hermione felt she deserved an Olympic gold medal for managing to uphold the Statute of Secrecy. The last time that Hermione had seen Mrs Hudson before being offered a flat to live in had been during her three-year relationship with Oliver.

Just as Hermione was beginning to explain why she and Oliver had broken up, Hermione heard the sound of the front door opening, the sounds of footsteps and male voices following shortly afterwards.

"Oh, that'll be John and Sherlock! Come on dear, off we go, I'll introduce you."

Hermione followed behind Mrs Hudson slightly hesitantly. She'd always felt somewhat outside of her element when it came to social things. As a very young child, not only had she been smarter than the other children, but strange, unexplainable things often occurred when she was near. For the first eleven years of her life, she hadn't had a single friend to her name. Then, of course, there had been the incident with the mountain troll in the girls' bathroom and she'd had Harry and Ron. But even that had been unusual, the nature of their friendship forged and reinforced through danger and adventure, creating a bond so rock solid that others had a hard time breaking through. The three had stayed in their own little bubble for seven years. As an adult, of course, her friendship circle had ever so slowly and subtly widened, but Hermione would never be what could be described as a 'social butterfly'.

As Hermione came to rest against the doorway to the kitchen, she saw the way that Mrs Hudson hugged a tall, dark-haired man, her attention rather doting in a way that was similar to the way that she treated Hermione. A shorter man with blond hair was next, and Hermione wondered which one was John and which one was Sherlock.

"Has Mycroft been, Mrs Hudson?" The taller man asked in a deep baritone, taking off his scarf and folding it over his arm. "Only I noticed that the knocker's been straightened-"

He stopped speaking abruptly as his eyes landed on her. The way that he looked at her was unsettling. Hermione had been subject to piercing stares before. Harry had this way of looking at someone with such raw emotion in his green eyes that they couldn't help bearing their own soul right back. Professor Dumbledore's stare had been famous for its omniscient qualities and Professor Snape had never failed to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end with a single look. Luna, in particular, had a way of seeing right down into the core of people.

But something about this was very different. It wasn't just that he was intelligent, or perceptive, though clearly he was, she could tell that just from a single glance into his eyes. No, there was a _greed _there, as he meticulously, methodically, coldly studied every last centimetre of her. It wasn't simply that he noticed things, no, there was pure _intent_ in his gaze. He was an explorer, and he would examine every leaf, study every twig and overturn every rock until he knew her every. Last. Secret.

This man was _dissecting_ her.

His eyes, an impossibly cold, cold blue, finally wandered back up to meet hers. His expression didn't change, but for a slow, ever-growing smirk. It was not reassuring.

"Never mind," he said to Mrs Hudson, not looking away from Hermione for even a second. "I know _exactly_ who moved it."

.:~{+}~:.

Five minutes later, and all four of them were in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, per the woman's insistence that 'the boys' should get acquainted with Hermione. The tall one, the one with the stare who Mrs Hudson had introduced as Sherlock, had muttered upon hearing that statement 'I already know everything about her that I need to,' but John, the shorter blond, had elbowed him sharply in the ribs and smiled at Hermione.

Hermione had been rather grateful for John then, but now, as they sat in awkward silence, she rather wished that they had simply gone upstairs to their flat.

Hermione cleared her throat, finally unable to stand it. "So, um, Sherlock."

He heaved a loud sigh, as though having to speak to her was some great chore. His expression as he looked at her could only ever be described as _bored_, and she bristled defensively.

"Mrs Hudson tells me you work with the police."

"Yes," he said, going back to examining the wallpaper with great intensity. She tried not to be offended that he found her less interesting than wallpaper. "I'm a consulting detective."

Silence fell upon the kitchen once more as Hermione scrabbled about in her mind, trying desperately to remember anything she might have ever read about _consulting detectives_. She came up with nothing.

"Is that… is that a real profession?"

"It is now. I'm the only one in the world. I made it up."

'I made it up' sounded the very opposite of a real profession to Hermione, and, unable to help herself, she went to say so.

"I don't mean to be rude-"

"Oh, but you do," he interrupted.

"I- _excuse me_!?" Hermione asked, outraged. She was not a rude person!

"Oh dear…" she heard Mrs Hudson mutter worriedly, but she ignored her in favour of focusing on this… this… this absolute _beast_ of a man!

"You obviously know that what you're about to say will be interpreted by me as rude, thus you're opening statement of 'I don't mean to be rude'. Which, of course, is clearly a lie, because if you truly didn't mean to be rude, then you wouldn't be saying what's on your mind at all. But you just can't help yourself from speaking your mind, can you? No, we live in a world where everyone is told that 'everyone matters', which is not only wrong, but it gives everyone the misplaced idea that others actually _care_ about their silly little opinions. So yes, I reiterate, just in case you're too stupid to have followed that frankly simple train of thought- _you did mean to be rude_."

Somewhere during this monologue, Hermione's jaw had dropped in the most genuine shock that she had felt since she was a teenager. With the exception of Professor Snape, who seemed to have been of the mind that any insult would do, never ever in her entire life had anyone ever called her _stupid_.

"You don't know a single thing about me-" she began, but he interrupted her once again, that infuriating smirk making its prodigal return.

"Oh, I know plenty about you."

"Oh!" Mrs Hudson threw her hands into the air and escaped from the kitchen into her flat, apparently no longer able to watch. Beside Sherlock, John swore under his breath. "Sherlock, don't you think that's enough now?"

Apparently Sherlock did not think that that was enough.

"Your name is Hermione, likely from Shakespeare, your parents are obviously well-read. That, along with your vocabulary and clear pronunciation, leads me to conclude that you come from a middle-class family. I'd place my bets on your parents being dentists, your teeth are extremely well taken care of, whiter than most, and very straight- unnaturally so. You've had work done on them. If your parents had merely had your teeth fixed as a child, you would likely not have continued to take such good care of them into adulthood. Obvious conclusion then, you were raised by dentists. You care about your appearance, as evidenced by the fact that you dress well, but also rather simply. Not vain then, you don't even wear make-up. In contrast, your hair is a mess- I'm inclined to believe that this is because it is… untameable, as some might say. Additionally, the way that you carry yourself is confident, assertive. You're used to having your ideas and opinions listened to. As a woman, you likely would be hard-pressed to gain that kind of respect out and about in daily life. So, a career woman then, office environment. Your skin is too pale and your nails too neat to suggest any kind of outside work. Tell me, was it your career that ended your marriage? You've obviously just escaped a long-term commitment, which was likely why you needed a new flat, and quickly. I noticed while we were being introduced that you have a nervous habit of fiddling with the base of your left ring finger- exactly where a wedding ring once sat. Or perhaps it was the fact that you didn't want children?" he finally finished, his gaze narrow, that feeling of being dissected was back. Hermione felt like a bug under a microscope, unable to escape.

"I-…" she trailed off, completely shocked. Never had she seen such a display of intellectual dominance, and for once in her life, she knew that she could not compete. Not that she was by any means stupid, but it had just become plainly obvious to her that he was far more intelligent than her, by leaps and bounds. She'd always thought that she might feel more threatened, if she were to ever be confronted with such an individual. She had always been defined by intellectual abilities. But she found herself too stunned to feel much of anything. She had even forgotten that she was angry with him.

"…How did you know that I didn't want children?" she found herself asking.

He smirked, clearly pleased with himself.

"You're in your late twenties to early thirties. If I had to put a number on it, I'd say thirty exactly." Here, he paused, raising his eyebrows at her for confirmation. She nodded and a look of triumph briefly spread smoothly across his features. "You're at the age where couples start wanting children. You though, you're a career woman. You don't have _time_ for children."

Hermione found herself relaxing. He was right about the core of her marriage troubles, but it was clear that he thought her divorce a recent event. He didn't know _everything_. He wasn't _God_.

"You're right," she said, watching as a smug expression settled over his face. "I was named after Shakespeare's Hermione. My parents are dentists. My hair is just… ridiculous. I did just get out of a long-term relationship and my marriage did end because I put my career ahead of my desire to have children."

She took a moment to watch the self-satisfied sparkle in his eye before speaking again.

"My marriage ended when I was twenty-five. I moved here after breaking up with my boyfriend." Hermione couldn't help her own expression of triumph as Sherlock suddenly looked as though he'd swallowed a lemon. Beside him, John choked on a laugh.

Sherlock stood abruptly, gazing down at her impassively from his great height. "Yes, well, I rather think that's enough _socialising_ for today." He said 'socialising' with great distaste.

He began to sweep from the room, but stopped at the doorway to the kitchen. Looking over his shoulder, he said to Hermione: "I do hope you will one day enlighten me as to what a 'mudblood' is."

As his footsteps sounded on the stairs, Hermione looked to her forearm with great panic. The glamour was still there. John looked at her quizzically, before shaking his head in exasperation.

"Don't know what the bloody hell he's talking about," John muttered. Clearly he couldn't see it. That was the thing about glamour charms. You really had to be _looking_ to see through them.

John cleared his throat, hovering awkwardly by the kitchen door. "Listen, I'm er… I'm sorry about Sherlock. Don't take it personally, he's like that with everyone. It was… it was nice to meet you, Hermione."

Hermione smiled and told John that it was nice to meet him too, but her mind was entirely occupied with the shockingly observant Sherlock Holmes.

She _definitely_ needed to do more things the Muggle way.

.:~{+}~:.

**Reviews are life. I'm torn between being proud of myself for having Sherlock in character, and feeling like, actually, he's TOO mean.**


	3. III: An Interested Party

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Sherlock_, _Harry Potter_ or _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_.

**Story Title: **Why is a Raven like a Writing-Desk?

**Chapter Title: **An Interested Party

**Summary:** Sherlock Holmes was a logical man who didn't believe in nonsensical things like witches and magic. Which is why Hermione Granger came as such a surprise… other than the fact that he ended up falling in love with her, of course. That too came as rather a surprise. Sherlock/Hermione.

**Timeline: **May, 2010.

**Title Inspiration: "**An interested party" is a line from Mycroft, the first quote not by Sherlock used so far! It's from the episode _A Study in Pink_.

**AN: **So Sherlock's a little different in this chapter. This is not because I'm worried about his meanness levels- all of you seemed to enjoy that! Really, I'm just basing it off his erratic mood changes on the show.

**Thank you, thank you, thank you for giving this story a chance! Also, I'm so glad you think that everyone is in character!**

.:~{+}~:.

**III: An Interested Party**

.:~{+}~:.

Hermione paused in the main hallway of 221, a 'click' echoing in the small space as she closed and locked her flat door. She had been planning on making use of the side alley and apparating to work, but then she remembered her promise to herself to at least _attempt_ to look like a Muggle, especially in the face of the infuriatingly observant Sherlock Holmes. That man was sure to notice if her comings and goings were always punctuated with the loud 'CRACK' of apparition, and he'd start asking questions that she wouldn't know how to answer. It was bad enough that he'd seen through her glamour and knew that someone had carved 'mudblood' into her skin.

Being Muggle-born, the idea of having to take a taxi to some secluded location where she could then apparate to the Ministry of Magic shouldn't sound like such a chore. But, she supposed, having had magic at her fingertips for almost twenty years now, she was rather spoiled for doing things the Muggle way.

With a sigh, she headed towards the front door, her heels clicking, doing her best to ignore the sound of Sherlock coming down the stairs. He stopped on the landing, taking her in as she passed. Ever since his mistake in regards to her marriage, he'd taken to deducing every little last thing about her- though maybe that was how he usually was, Hermione really didn't know. She'd known the man for a total of three days. She just found herself annoyed by how bloody _impressed_ she was by his accuracy.

"Nice blouse, professional skirt, heels. You're going to work."

Well, most of the time she was impressed.

"Well, as it's a Monday…" Hermione trailed off. His face stayed blank. She rolled her eyes. Of course he wouldn't keep a normal work schedule, not with his 'made up' job. "_Yes_, I'm going to work."

He brightened so suddenly that she was taken by surprise. "Brilliant! You should pick up some milk on your way home. John was complaining there was none."

And then he started back up the stairs with a grace that Hermione found horribly envy-inducing.

"But I- I don't even _live_ with you!" she called, but the door the 221B had already closed with a bang.

Merlin, he was _beyond_ infuriating, she thought to herself as she stormed out the door and onto the street. He was rude and presumptuous and… and… and… he was a bloody _know-it-all_!

She paused momentarily at that thought, remembering the number of times she herself had been called a know-it-all throughout her life. She felt guilt beginning to niggle its way into her heart.

And then, of course, she remembered that she couldn't even apparate to work anymore, and all because of _Sherlock bloody Holmes_, and guilt suddenly ceased to be an issue.

She stood on the pavement for close to five minutes waiting for a cab to stop. She ignored the cabbie's odd look when she simply told him to start driving when he asked where she was going, and she ignored his even odder look when she finally stopped him in front of an old abandoned factory. Paying the taxi fare (what a waste of money- yet another thing Sherlock Holmes was at fault for), she stepped around to the side of the building, and after a covert look-about to ensure she was quite alone, she disapparated.

.:~{+}~:.

After Voldemort's defeat in May, 1998, Kingsley Shacklebolt won the vote for Minister of Magic by a landslide. Immediately, laws that had been put into place by Voldemort and his supporters were undone, and Muggle-borns were given back all of the rights they were due. Auror teams were assembled more quickly than Hermione would have ever thought possible and Death Eaters were being put on trial left, right and centre. Very, very few got away.

The lightest sentencing went to the Malfoy family with Lucius Malfoy being sentenced to fifteen years in Azkaban for crimes against humanity, Draco being placed on house arrest for a year and Narcissa Malfoy being cleared of all charges. Their trial had been in pending for over a year, meaning by the time that a verdict was given in October, 1999, Hermione had already switched over into law enforcement and had the opportunity to follow the case more closely than the rest of the Wizard world. It was as Harry was giving his testimony to the Wizengamot on how he'd surely be dead if it hadn't been for Narcissa Malfoy, and how Draco had not turned the trio over to Voldemort during their stay at Malfoy Manor, that Hermione came to the conclusion that she wanted to end up as a member of the elite jury.

She would achieve this goal almost ten years later.

Due to her position as Harry Potter's best friend and their shared involvement in the Order of the Phoenix, even at the age of nineteen, Hermione had been lucky enough to have Minister Shacklebolt on her side all these years. She never would have accepted an undue leg up, and he never would have offered one, but she wouldn't lie, being friends with the Minister of Magic certainly made a career in law enforcement _easier_. Though there had, of course, been talk of favouritism behind the scenes when she had been promoted as the youngest member of the Wizengamot, most had simply brushed it off. Mafalda Hopkirk however, who had risen through the system with such stealth that Hermione barely even noticed her until she was quite suddenly the Head of the Wizengamot, had always regarded her with suspicion. Though, of course, this may have had something to do with the fact that Hermione had once impersonated her using Polyjuice Potion for the sake of breaking into the Ministry.

Either way, it made for a difficult working relationship.

Which was why she groaned in dread when she saw Mafalda headed her way through the large glass windows of her office that Monday afternoon. She tried to make herself seem busier than she actually was, in an attempt to ward off her superior, but no such luck. Within moments, Mafalda was in Hermione's office and in front of her desk.

A high stack of parchments landed on Hermione's desk with a loud rustle, several of the rolled-up cylinders beginning to fall before she made a wild grab for them. After ensuring they were in place, she reluctantly looked up at Mafalda.

The Head of the Wizengamot was a laughably tiny woman for one who held such power. Admittedly, Hermione wasn't quite average height herself, but Mafalda Hopkirk barely topped out at 5' tall. Still, she was quite formidable when she chose to be, with her by now snow white hair always tied back so severely that it made the sharp angles of her face look increasingly disapproving and a narrow-eyed stare that always made Hermione feel on edge.

"I need you to look back over the Kessler case. And once you're done with that, you were meant to be helping Susan Bones with her induction training- youngest member of the Wizengamot you shall no longer be," Mafalda finished snidely, a mean little smirk curling along her lips

Hermione bit her tongue from telling Mafalda that her title as the youngest member had more to do with the fact that she'd _become_ a member at the age of twenty-nine (Susan was now thirty) and less to do with her currently, _literally_ being the youngest. Instead, she smiled.

"Of course, Mafalda."

With a sharp nod, the older woman strode out of her office.

Hermione looked at the pile of parchment on her desk with a vague sense of unhappiness. So much for her plan of being home by 5:00.

When she eventually did leave two hours later than she had planned at 7:00, she quite purposefully did _not_ stop for milk.

.:~{+}~:.

She saw John leaving 221 just as she was exiting her cab. (More wasted money). He spotted her as well and gave a friendly wave. They stopped before one another on the pavement, and Hermione heard the cab pull away behind her.

"Oh, sorry, should I have held that for you?" she suddenly realized.

He gave her an easy-going smile and shook his head. Hermione smiled back. She hadn't had much interaction with John, but she found herself liking him immensely. He had the same kind of friendly easiness that had first drawn her to Harry and Ron.

"Nah, it's alright. It's easy enough to get a cab in London. Take it you're back from work?"

"Yes," Hermione answered with a smile.

"You know, you never did say what it is you do."

Hermione's smile froze momentarily. How to explain her job? Juries didn't work the same way in the Muggle world as they did the Wizard world.

"I work in the government," she finally settled on.

John smiled slightly. "Let me guess, you occupy a 'minor position in the British government'."

Hermione shot him a confused look. "I beg your pardon?"

John shook his head, still smiling. "Nothing, just a uh… a bit of an inside joke, I guess."

"Oh. Well… speaking of what people actually _do_, what is a consulting detective?"

"Ah, I knew that would come up sooner or later! Sherlock's… well, he's a genius, right?"

Hermione nodded in agreement. She thought he was an arrogant sod, but there was no denying his incredible intelligence.

"That thing he did when you first met him- he calls it deducing. He's got a website about it and everything, calls it _The Science of Deduction_. You should look it up sometime, the way his brain works is just mind-boggling. Anyway, he does that to everyone around him. All the time. Constantly. He's… _extraordinary_ when it comes to reading people. Makes him very good at catching criminals. So the police consult him on difficult cases. And sometimes ordinary people come and ask him for help too. Calls them his clients."

Hermione's eyebrows raised. "The _police_ consult him?" Of course, now that it had been spelled out for her, it all seemed rather obvious. Mrs Hudson _had_ said that he worked with the police. She suddenly felt bad for her previously low opinion of his work.

"Yeah," John said with a nod. "Don't worry, I was pretty surprised at first, too."

Hermione shot him a relieved little smile that he easily returned.

"What do you do then?" Hermione asked, blushing. In the face of her curiosity about what, exactly, a consulting detective _was_, she had neglected to ask John about his own job. It all really seemed rather rude.

John didn't appear to share this opinion. She supposed that having Sherlock as a flatmate, he was likely desensitized to the more mild levels of rudeness.

"Hmm? Me? Oh. I'm a doctor. Used to be an army doctor, but got invalided back home. Now I work part-time at a small practice. When I'm not there I'm usually off at some crime scene or another with Sherlock."

"Oh," she said, not quite knowing what else there was _to_ say. Not for the first time, she wished she were a bit better with people.

"Well, if that's all, I'd best pop off! Got to get milk," John said cheerfully. Hermione blushed slightly at the mention of the milk.

With one last smile exchanged between the two, they began to go their separate ways. Just as Hermione was unlocking the door to 221, she heard John call out to her.

"Hermione, wait!"

She turned, curiosity in her eyes.

"Listen, you've been here a few days now… you don't happen to have been picked up in a black car and taken to a secluded location with a man who calls himself Sherlock's archenemy, by any chance?"

Hermione's eyebrows raised. "Um… no. I suppose I should look forward to that, then?" She couldn't find it within herself to be worried at the prospect of being kidnapped. She'd lived through a war in the Wizard world, and any archenemy of Sherlock's was likely to be a Muggle.

John snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, well it's nothing to worry about. Just Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. Works with the British government. He enjoys being a mysterious git."

Hermione laughed. "I'll keep that in mind." Suddenly John's 'inside joke' about her occupying a minor position in the British government was making more sense.

"Also, he might offer you money to spy on Sherlock. Take it."

"I… what? Are you… are you sure?"

John chuckled a bit at her hesitance. "Yeah, we normal people see spying for money as a bad thing. But when I turned down Mycroft's offer Sherlock just told me it was a pity and we could have split the fee. So if he offers you money, take it."

Hermione couldn't help it- she laughed.

"Right. Well, then. Now I'm really off." And with a salute, John once more turned his attention to securing a cab. Hermione let herself inside, wondering if eccentricity was a genetic trait of the Holmes'.

.:~{+}~:.

A few evenings later saw a pyjama-clad Hermione contemplating her fireplace. It would make her life so much easier if she could get the Floo network installed, but, again, she was rather certain that Sherlock would notice if people started coming and going without use of the main door. With a heavy, put-upon sigh, she let go of the idea with great reluctance.

Having a basement flat, the windows she possessed were tiny and close to the ceiling. Owling, while possible, would not be easy. Not to mention, she didn't _own_ an owl. After Crookshanks passed away two years before, she hadn't been able to bring herself to invest in another familiar. It hadn't been a problem while she was living with Oliver, he'd had a large eagle owl that he let her use whenever she wanted. Now, though, it appeared to be a bit of a hindrance.

Or perhaps not. Owls were rather odd pets in the Muggle world, after all.

She stomped a foot in frustration before flopping back onto her couch and staring up at the ceiling moodily. Through that ceiling, Sherlock Holmes dwelled. The core of all her problems.

Well, alright. Not _all_ of them. Far from it. But certainly a fair few of the recent ones.

She heard the door of 221 open then, and furrowed her brow (as she was quite certain both John and Sherlock were home) as footsteps sounded above her. The door of 221B then opened. Shortly, she heard Sherlock's deep, muffled voice, and a more nasal voice that she didn't recognise in response. As the conversation continued, Sherlock began to sound more and more irritated.

There was a pause, and then she heard some sort of awful screeching noise. Immediately, her face contorted in offense at the ugly racket. Apparently the visitor's ears were similarly offended, as she heard them retreating back down the stairs and out of the building.

The sound abruptly stopped, and it was in the silence that Hermione finally realized it had been Sherlock playing the violin.

She gave a disgusted roll of her eyes. No wonder Mrs Hudson had been so worried about his violin playing, if _that_ was how he treated the poor instrument. After listening intently for a few moments more, she finally discerned that he wasn't going to 'play' again.

With a sigh, she reached over to the coffee table and picked up her tried and true copy of _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_.

_JABBERWOCKY_

'_Twas brillig, and the slithy toves_

_Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:_

_All mimsy were the borogroves,_

_And the mome raths outgrabe._

.:~{+}~:.

She had been living at Baker Street for two weeks when a shiny black car finally pulled up to her as she was attempting to go out for the shopping. Remembering her conversation with John, she approached it without much fuss and slid into the backseat. There was a pretty brunette texting away and after a brief smile shared between the two, Hermione was driven clear the other side of London in silence.

When she was finally dropped off at an abandoned warehouse, she was greeted by a tall man in tweed with an umbrella who really looked nothing like Sherlock, except for a pair of cold, cold eyes.

Hermione cleared her throat, feeling rather underdressed in her simple blouse and jeans. "I take it you're Mycroft?" she inquired politely.

He gave her a tight smile that really did not look very sincere at all. "Ah, yes," he said, and she realized with a start that he had been the visitor at 221B that Sherlock had driven away with his awful violin playing. "I see Dr Watson has told you about me, Ms _Granger_."

There was something about the way that he emphasised her surname that put Hermione rather on edge. She shifted uncomfortably.

He studied her for a few moments more. One didn't have to spend much time with Sherlock to learn how being deduced felt, so Hermione could sense that that was what was occurring. But his brother did it differently. Sherlock deduced like if he looked hard enough at a person he could discover all of the secrets of the universe. The way Mycroft eyed her made it rather clear that he really didn't care one way or another about whatever he gleaned.

He stretched out a hand to her, and she suddenly realized he was holding a file. She glanced back at his face, but other than an oddly mischievous gleam in his eye, he was impassive. She slowly took the proffered file.

She gasped sharply at what was inside. Pictures of herself as a child. School records. Report cards. Teachers' comments. _Hogwarts records, all of her OWL and NEWT results, moving pictures, newspaper clippings from _The Daily Prophet_ 'Hermione Granger, best friend of the Boy-Who-Lived', 'Hermione Granger marries fellow war hero Ron Weasley', 'Tragic Divorce'-_

She shut the file with a snap and looked back at Mycroft, pale-faced and wide-eyed.

"Hermione Granger," he drawled, just the slightest touch of amusement at her reaction in his voice. "The brightest witch of her age."

"I-I-how-" she cut herself off. Of course. John had said he worked in the government. Though, his possession of these files suggested that he held a rather more important place than just a 'minor position in the British government'.

"Oh, come now, Ms Granger, I simply had to check up on you once it became clear you'd be living so near to my brother. I do worry about him."

Hermione shifted. "I… does he… does he know?"

He raised his eyebrows, twirling his umbrella casually. "Does Sherlock know that you're a witch? No, of course not. I find it rather entertaining to see how long it will take him to figure it out by himself."

She couldn't decide whether she was annoyed or amused by that.

"Though I take it from your reaction that you would quite prefer him not to know."

She squirmed, recognising something predatory in his gaze. She realized, right then, in that moment, that had this man been a wizard, he would have been a Slytherin, and she had just shown her hand.

"Well, I… the International Statute of Secrecy-"

"Yes, yes," he interrupted, flapping a hand about dismissively, as though the most foundational law in Wizard history were a minor detail.

"I think that we can arrange a deal, Ms Granger."

She immediately tensed. "What kind of deal?" she asked cautiously.

"You keep me updated on my little brother, and I shall keep your secret. I'm prepared to offer you a sum of money, of course-"

But Hermione had already stopped listening. She relaxed, knowing that John had already told her to accept such an offer anyway.

But, of course, it would be for the best to allow Mycroft Holmes to think he had won.

.:~{+}~:.

It was her sense of honesty that lead her up the stairs of 221B after that sleek black car had dropped her off later that evening. The door at the top of the stairs had been left open and so she tentatively stepped inside. She immediately noticed Sherlock sat in an armchair, his fingers steeped beneath his chin. Perhaps more interesting, however, was the large yellow smiley face drawn on the back wall with what looked suspiciously like bullet punctures.

"What are you doing up here?" Sherlock asked, still looking at some unidentified spot behind her. Hermione didn't bother looking. Instead, she pointed to the desecrated wall.

"Does Mrs Hudson know about that?" she asked.

He blinked and furrowed his brow, following the direction of her finger. "Hm? Oh. Yes. That. Yes, she knows. I got bored."

Hermione looked dubiously between him and the wall, wondering what other sorts of things occurred when he was bored, but decided to let it go for the sake of her sanity.

"Right. Well. I met your brother today."

A slow smirk of amusement crawled across his face. "Did you now? What did he say about me? Did he try to warn you off?"

Her eyebrows raised. "No, but I must say, it says rather a lot when your own _brother_ tries to warn people about you."

He shrugged, apparently unconcerned by this.

"He said he was worried about you," she continued, watching the way he rolled his eyes at that statement. "He offered me money to spy on you. I took it."

For the first time since she had met him, he looked genuinely surprised, and Hermione felt satisfaction well up inside her.

"John told me that you said it was a pity when he didn't accept the money. So I was given fair warning."

He gave her a pleased smirk and looked at her approvingly. Hermione felt, from a completely objective point of view of course, that it did rather nice things for his face.

"Want to split the fee?" he asked.

.:~{+}~:.

That night, just after she had turned off her bedside lamp and was snuggling down into her duvet, she heard the opening strains of the violin.

Expecting it to be just as jarring to her senses as before, she immediately reached to her bedside table for her wand, completely prepared to cast a silencing charm and be done with it. But she faltered as the opening notes were played ever so smoothly, freezing in place as a lovely, haunting melody sliced through the silence of the night.

It was _beautiful_.

She slowly lowered herself back into bed, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, scarcely able to believe that the awful, tortured groans of the violin could be made by the very same man that was summoning this _masterpiece_ into existence.

She lay awake listening for a very long time, despite the fact that she had work in the morning. And eventually, it lulled her to sleep.

.:~{+}~:.

**So. Not as much Sherlock as I think some of you were hoping for. But I'm still establishing Hermione into the Baker Street universe. In case you couldn't tell, this is a slow-burn. Also- Mafalda Hopkirk. To be honest, I just freaking love her name!**


	4. IV: It's Primary School Stuff

**Disclaimer: **_Sherlock_, _Harry Potter _and _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland _all belong to other people, none of which is me.

**Story Title: **Why is a Raven like a Writing-Desk?

**Chapter Title: **It's Primary School Stuff

**Summary: **Sherlock Holmes was a logical man who didn't believe in nonsensical things like witches and magic. Which is why Hermione Granger came as such a surprise… other than the fact that he ended up falling in love with her, of course. That too came as rather a surprise. Sherlock/Hermione.

**Timeline: **We are finally moving forward into June, 2010! Yay for progress! In September, we'll get to see Irene!

**Title Inspiration: **Chapter title comes from _The Great Game_, with John's bafflement at Sherlock not knowing the earth goes round the sun : )

**AN: **Yep. It's been… two weeks? I think? I'm back at university, plus I got really, really, _really_ sick last week and basically couldn't bear to do anything about anything. Plus, I've been watching _Parade's End_. Why is Benedict Cumberbatch perfect? Uhm… not sure there's really anything you need to know about the chapter…

**As always, thank you for paying attention to this little story, I adore each and every one of you : ) **

.:~{+}~:.

**IV: It's Primary School Stuff**

.:~{+}~:.

As May faded into June and the gentle warmth of spring turned into the harsher heat of summer, Hermione grew used to the sounds of the violin at all hours. He played so very beautifully, with such emotion, especially for a man that, as far as she could see, expressed very little emotion indeed. She found that of the composers, she enjoyed when he played Bach the most, but her absolute _favourite_ pieces were the ones she didn't recognise, and she found herself wondering whether he was a composer, whether they were _his_ pieces.

He hadn't tortured the instrument again, but then, his brother hadn't come around again. For this reason, she was becoming more and more certain that it was, in fact, _Mycroft_ that he had intended to torture during that short visit. The violin (and Hermione's ears, as it happened) were simply collateral damage.

In the three weeks that Hermione had been living at 221, the four inhabitants had settled around one another, becoming used to Hermione's presence in the building. In all honesty, between her job and Sherlock's, she didn't actually see Sherlock and John all that often, though she did notice that 221B received a large assortment of visitors. She assumed these must be the clients John had mentioned. She had wondered how so many people knew about Sherlock until Mrs Hudson told her that John kept a blog that was vastly growing in popularity. Not that Hermione would know, considering she hadn't bothered with a computer. The only Muggle technology she cared to own consisted of kitchen appliances and the TV. Well, and the radio.

When she _did_ see her upstairs neighbours, there was always an air of movement around Sherlock, even when he was completely and utterly still, as though she could literally _see_ his thoughts buzzing around inside his brilliant mind. John wasn't like that at all. A true soldier, all of his movements were strictly regimented for the sake of efficiency, unlike Sherlock who practically _vibrated_ with constant energy.

And then, of course, there was the matter of the door knocker.

In all honesty, she had barely even thought about the fact that every time she passed the front door, she'd straighten the seemingly ever-crooked door knocker, until one day she'd done it in front of Sherlock and he'd glowered at her.

"For God's sake, you and Mycroft, obsessive compulsive, the both of you!"

And then he'd reached over and set the knocker on an angle again. Hermione had blinked at him, bewildered, before straightening it again. He scowled and set it back on its angle. Hermione, becoming irritated and defiant, straightened it. And on and on and on the War of the Door Knocker went until finally, John, who'd been stood behind Sherlock the whole time, much to Hermione's later embarrassment, rolled his eyes and told them they looked like two teenage girls having a catfight.

Still, Hermione now very deliberately straightened that door knocker every time she passed it. Because he always set it crookedly. And she knew he was being just as deliberate about it as her.

Despite this, Hermione was baffled to find herself warming to Sherlock. She was convinced that he was rudest, most presumptuous, most arrogant, most infuriating arsehole to ever walk the face of the earth (with the exception of perhaps Draco Malfoy) and yet there was something utterly enigmatic and mysterious and charismatic about the man that drew people to him like a magnet. She wasn't the only one, she'd seen the way that John and Mrs Hudson could be driven absolutely up the wall by him and yet still want to be in his presence.

She even found herself buying things from the store when he asked (yes, even the bloody milk) though she preferred to think that this was more because she was saving John a trip rather than the fact that she was actually growing inexplicably fond of that utter bastard.

None of this stopped him from being an inconvenient clout, of course, as was evidenced one fine morning when he decided to make like one of the police officers he seemed to so despise and interrogate her.

She had finally decided that enough was enough and invested in a cute little barn owl who she'd named Amber, for her lovely eyes. Yes, it would look very odd. Sherlock Holmes could just go and stuff it. She was a _witch_, for Merlin's sake, and she needed to be able to communicate with the Wizard world!

There had still been the issue of the cramped windows on the upper walls of her flat not being entirely conducive to owling, and thus she had convinced Mrs Hudson to let Amber in and out through her windows, making up a story about having trained an owl to carry mail with her friends as a child. Mrs Hudson had thought it adorable that they continued to communicate in their 'inventive' way.

Sherlock, damn him, wasn't fooled.

She had been in Mrs Hudson's flat, opening the living room window and pulling the letter from Amber's leg, whispering praise to the little owl when Sherlock strolled in as though he owned the place (as he always did).

"You don't have a phone," he opened.

Hermione furrowed her brow, still not used to his habit of starting conversations half-way through. "What? Of course I have a phone- you've seen it, in my living room. You know, that time you _broke into my flat_?" she reminded him with a scowl. She was still angry about that.

He didn't answer for a moment, sending the owl a glance that on anyone else she might have described as puzzled, but he managed to pull off as curious. His eyes slowly slid back towards her.

"Oh. You're still upset about that?"

Hermione gave an exasperated sigh. "Sherlock, it was an invasion of my privacy!"

He rolled his eyes, as though she were being ridiculous. "Oh, privacy, privacy's boring," he said, waving a hand flippantly. "You should get used to it. John has."

And that was all the explanation he saw fit to give her.

She rolled her eyes, trying desperately not to stomp her foot in frustration.

"Anyway, I meant you don't have a mobile," he clarified.

"Oh," she said, the tension suddenly draining from her, because it was true. But how did he know that? Other than the fact that he knew everything, of course.

She opened her mouth, but he deduced the question before it even formed on her tongue and said in a casual tone "I went to track your mobile number. Imagine my surprise when I found you didn't own one. Why is that, Hermione? At thirty you are well within age range to possess one, to such an extent that it is odd you do not."

Hermione swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. His eyes were sharp and followed her every movement.

For a Muggle-born, she was finding it astoundingly difficult to blend in with Muggles.

"I… didn't see the point in one."

He narrowed his eyes, lips pursed, and in that single look she could _read_ the 'do-you-take-me-for-an-idiot' thoughts radiating from his buzzing mind. The answer was no, she didn't take him for an idiot at all, which was rather unfortunate because if he weren't so devastatingly clever, they wouldn't be having this conversation at all.

"And anyway," she began, trying to make herself sound angry instead of unnerved, "why were you looking up my mobile number in the first place?"

"Hm? Oh," he said, a slight scowl on his face as he waved his hand again in that flippant manner that both he and his brother employed. She wondered how angry he'd get if she said he reminded her of Mycroft. "I wanted you to come up and bring my skull to me."

In a way that was becoming all too familiar, Hermione suddenly felt a sense of utterly confused disconnect as she attempted to understand how his brain worked. For such a logical man, his mind worked in the most baffling ways.

"So… you went to the trouble of trying to find my number… so that you could text me to come all the way upstairs… and hand you your skull… which was probably about three steps away from your chair."

His eyes, exotically tilted and cat-like, narrowed at her tone. "Problem?"

Hermione didn't answer, except to study him as though he were a particularly fascinating specimen, still attempting to understand his strange, brilliant mind.

Not used to being the one observed, his eyes suddenly snapped back to Amber, sharp and quick and piercing, and the owl shifted closer to Hermione, apparently unsettled.

And just like that, he'd reclaimed all the power.

"An owl… rather strange pet, don't you think?"

And because Hermione was possibly the unluckiest person in the world, it was at that moment that Mrs Hudson had come bustling in from the kitchen, just in time to hear Sherlock's comment.

"Oh, Sherlock, you'll like this, ever so clever it is. Hermione and her friends trained an owl when they were children to carry letters back and forth! Isn't that brilliant!? And they carry on with it now even though they're grown." As Mrs Hudson said the last part, she scrunched her nose affectionately at Hermione, patting her cheek maternally before carrying on to the bathroom, which was presumably her original destination.

Sherlock was intensely focused on her, as he hadn't been since she very first met him and he was putting all of his effort into deducing her. She decided that it couldn't possibly be a good thing. But what was she afraid of, really? He'd never deduce that she was a _witch_, of all things. It wasn't even in the realm of possibility for him. But then she remembered Mycroft's words.

_I find it rather entertaining to see how long it will take him to figure it out by himself_.

Somehow, she doubted that Mycroft was overestimating his brother. Which suggested quite strongly that he _would_ figure it out at some point.

"So," Sherlock finally said, in a slow, deep tone that just screamed that he had the upper hand and he _knew it_. "No point in a phone?" he asked dryly. "Yes, I can see why, what with your utterly brilliant owl system." His sarcasm was piercing enough so as to be embarrassing, but she was more concerned with the fact that the intensity had not yet faded from his gaze. It was as though she were the most interesting thing he'd ever laid eyes on. Like if he stared hard enough he could find whatever invisible little key he needed to unlock all her secrets. Though knowing Sherlock, he wouldn't bother with the key, he'd just pick the lock.

And that was a _terrifying_ concept, to have the sudden realization that she'd just become his next puzzle, that he'd stop at nothing until all her strange and abnormal and owl-shaped pieces were put together and he saw the bigger picture, magic and witches and _her_.

_I find it rather entertaining to see how long it will take him to figure it out by himself_.

.:~{+}~:.

Hermione came back to 221 late in the afternoon a few days later, struggling with the shopping. Oh, how she missed the days of being able to levitate things into her flat. Ginny would be coming over with the children tomorrow for the first time since Hermione moved in, and she needed to have plenty of food because Godric knew those boys ate as though they were being presented with their last meal.

She'd just started scrabbling for her keys when she noticed that her door was already slightly ajar, and she rolled her eyes in agitation. "For Merlin's sake, Sherlock, what could you have possibly wanted this time," she muttered to herself, going inside and down the stairs. Honestly, she was lucky she'd had the foresight to place a glamour charm concealing her magical texts- a strong one, one that even _Sherlock_ wouldn't be able to see through.

After putting everything away, she stomped her way up the stairs to 221B, intent on lecturing Sherlock _yet again_ on the joys of privacy, though she very much doubted he'd care. Instead, what she found was one John Watson sat on his laptop, looking rather more relaxed than she thought anyone living with Sherlock Holmes should be capable of.

He looked up at the sound of her footsteps, and gave a sympathetic grimace at the annoyance on her face.

"He's not here right now, sorry. What'd he do this time?"

Hermione felt herself deflate slightly and heaved a sigh. "Picked my lock again." John's answer was another grimace.

She walked further into the room to collapse on the chair behind where John sat at the desk. She briefly wrinkled her nose in distaste when she remembered that this was Sherlock's chair, but soon became distracted when she caught a glimpse of the laptop screen over John's shoulder.

"_The personal blog of Dr John H Watson_?" she questioned.

"Hm? Oh, yeah. After I got back from Afghanistan my therapist thought keeping a blog might help me adjust to civilian life." Unseen by John, Hermione grimaced in sympathy. She was all too aware of the adjustment period required after fighting in a war.

"So, what do you write about?" she asked. "I know Mrs Hudson said that you post your cases with Sherlock on there a lot. It's where most of your clients come from, right?"

John threw her a quick smile over his shoulder, nodding. "Yeah, though if you ask Sherlock, he'd say it's because of his website- _The Science of Deduction_."

Hermione smiled faintly, humming in amusement. "I take it from your tone that it's _not_ because of his website?"

John gave a short, bark of a laugh, and Hermione felt the tiniest ghost of grief inside her, because for a split second he reminded her of Sirius.

"No. I mean, you should read it sometime, there's no escaping his sheer, mind boggling brilliance, and it gives an odd kind of insight into the way that his brain works, but… well."

"But what?" Hermione prompted, unbearably curious.

"Well… he also enumerates two-hundred and forty different kinds of tobacco ash."

Hermione snorted. "I wish I could read them now, but I don't have a computer."

John stopped typing, turning to face her. "What, you don't get internet on your mobile?"

"I don't have a mobile," she answered, annoyed that she hadn't anticipated this being such an issue.

"Wh- _really_?" he asked, disbelief spelled out all across his face.

"I… um… I've always been a bit minimalist," she offered.

"Yeah, except when it comes to books, right?" he said with a good-natured smile. "I've seen the inside of your flat, Hermione Granger."

She laughed, shaking her head and raising her hands in defeat. "Guilty," she confessed.

"You know, if you want," he started, turning back towards the laptop, "when I'm done typing up this case, you can read them all you want."

Hermione smiled at the back of his head, pleased that there was someone as friendly as John Watson around to balance out Sherlock's social deviancy. "Thanks John, I'd like that."

They sat in companionable silence for the next fifteen minutes, and she found herself relieved that it wasn't at all awkward, like it had the potential to be.

When John finally stood with a "right, well I'm done, feel free to have a poke around. Would you like a cup of tea?" Hermione answered with a "Yes, please," and approached the laptop with something resembling caution. Her parents' computer was absolutely ancient, so it had been a few years since she'd used a laptop.

It was a pleasant half hour as Hermione sipped her tea and read through all of John and Sherlock's cases, the most recent of which being _The Geek Interpreter_. It was interesting to see how John viewed Sherlock, reassuring to have this extra proof that yes, it was possible to be annoyed with him and yet still dazzled by his unbelievable intellect- she wasn't the only one that reacted to Sherlock like this. Still more interesting was seeing that unbelievable intellect in action through John's blog. His mind was _stunning_. It was a fact that the intellectual in her was unendingly fascinated by, attracted to. She wanted to crack him open at the seams and crawl inside his mind, wanted to know what it was like to be surrounded by pure _genius_.

Because he was a genius. Hermione couldn't even count the amount of times she'd heard the words 'she's practically a genius' in reference to herself. But Sherlock- there wasn't any 'practically' about it- Sherlock _was_ a genius.

When the last dregs of her tea had been sipped and the concluding words read by her greedy eyes, she turned to John, the faintest traces of amusement dancing across her lips.

"Did he really not know the earth went round the sun?"

John looked equal parts guilty and amused. If she had to wager, she'd bet she wasn't the only one who'd latched onto that detail.

"He said that his brain was a hard drive and he only had room for useful stuff in there. Said it didn't matter if the earth went round the sun or round and round the garden like a teddy bear."

Her smile stretched wider.

"He deleted the fact that the earth went round the sun, but he kept that nursery rhyme?"

There was a still moment of silence before they burst into giggles.

.:~{+}~:.

"Luna's pregnant," Ginny stated simply, watching Lily as the little girl sucked on a juice box, her wide eyes fixated on a showing of _The Teletubbies_.

Hermione, who'd been distracted checking that the boys hadn't trekked mud when they'd come in, furrowed her brow in an attempt to register that statement before turning back to Ginny.

"What?"

"Mum," James interrupted, whining like the child he insisted he wasn't. "Can we change the channel? This is boring."

"James, don't interrupt!" Ginny scolded, looking remarkably like Mrs Weasley. "And no, your brother and sister are both happy with it. Find something else to do."

"There's nothing else _to_ do," he complained, the pitch of his voice rising further. "You wouldn't let me bring my toy broom-"

"That's because we're in a Muggle area!" Ginny hissed, encouraging James non-verbally to whisper about magical things when in Muggle society.

Hermione tried to refrain from rolling her eyes. Ginny hadn't seemed to care about the fact that they were in a Muggle area when she'd apparated here.

"There's another TV in my room," she offered, hoping to cut off any oncoming disagreement. James turned to his mother with his dark eyes wide and hopeful. Ginny sighed, before nodding. James cheered in a way that only children seem able to do over such simple things and ran to Hermione's room, Albus' indignant 'hey!' following him as he stepped on his younger brother's stuffed hippogriff in the process.

"You know, that's not exactly the kind of toy to bring into the area either," Hermione pointed out, nodding to where Albus was whispering words of comfort to his teddy.

"Oh," Ginny frowned. "There's so many things Muggles don't have. I'm always forgetting what's ours and what's theirs'."

Hermione shook her head. "It's fine. Now, what's this about Luna?"

"Oh, yes. She's pregnant. Two months along. Announced it this weekend- you know, the weekly family dinner."

Hermione nodded, remembering those all too well. She adored the Weasleys even to this day, but during the very worst of her marriage to Ron she'd come to hate those weekly dinners. The questions about why they hadn't had a baby yet and the knowing looks every time she and Ron snapped at each other.

"Are you… are you alright?" Ginny asked, looking unsure of how Hermione would take the information.

Hermione paused, attempting to analyse her feelings, but all she came up with was… odd. She felt odd. Not jealous or upset or spiteful. Just odd. It was strange, she and Ron had been divorced five years now, he'd married and she'd had a long-term relationship in the time since, and yet it still seemed odd that he belonged to Luna now, that it was Luna giving birth to his child. And not because she felt possessive of him, because she didn't, not anymore. More because from the time she was thirteen she'd envisaged being the one to give birth to those little redheaded children. It was an idea she'd grown up with, an idea that everyone else around her had seemed to share, and it probably had a lot to do with her marrying him when she was nineteen, even though all they ever seemed to do was fight. When it had come right down to it, of course, she'd decided that having those children wasn't the only thing she wanted out of life, and she didn't regret that decision at all. It was now blatantly obvious to her that she and Ron hadn't been right for each other, and any children she'd had with him would have grown up in a miserable household, which was not something she'd wish on any child. Still, it was difficult, letting go of an idea that had been harboured for so long.

So yes. She felt odd.

"I… I'm happy for them," she finally settled on saying, mostly because it seemed the thing to do, but as she said it, she realized it was _true_. She really was happy for them. Ron had always wanted children, and she was so pleased for him, that Luna was giving him that. Having finally identified an emotion, a _positive _emotion, a smile of relief crept onto her face, and Ginny smiled back in response.

"Good," the redhead said, looking as pleased as Hermione felt.

It _was_ good. _So_ good. Hermione had never realized until this very moment, but there'd always been a little place in the back of her mind where she'd wondered if she'd ever end up with Ron again. And not because she _wanted_ to, because she didn't, hadn't for years now, but because he'd been such a huge part of her life and sometimes the idea of _not_ being with him still felt foreign. But now she could finally let that thought go, and for the very first time since- since- well, since she was a child, really, she felt free of any obligation outside of friendship to him.

And it was so unbelievably refreshing.

.:~{+}~:.

When Hermione got home from work the next day, she stopped dead, staring in disbelief at her kitchen table.

On it was a shiny new laptop and a sleek, expensive-looking mobile phone.

She reached out and touched them, unsure whether or not she was imagining them because _what_-

The mobile screen was informing her that she had four messages.

She looked around helplessly for a moment, utterly confused, before picking up the device and reading the texts.

_13:07. Honestly, what thirty-year-old woman isn't in possession of a laptop or a mobile phone? SH_

_14:17. John informs me that you will not take kindly to such expensive gifts. I told him they were not gifts. I need you to be available to me at all times. SH_

_14:22. You will find these items quite impossible to return. Somehow, I don't know how, the receipts ended up in the shredder. SH_

_15:12. Do you think you could buy eggs? SH_

"Ugh, Sherlock!"

.:~{+}~:.

**I am not really so sure about that first scene. It felt slightly all over the place to me, but I couldn't figure out how to fix it, so I figured I'd post it and see what you guys think. They're a hard couple to write, with Sherlock's moodiness and Hermione's quick temper. As always, thanks for reading, and please review!**


	5. V: Bored!

**Disclaimer: **_Sherlock_, _Harry Potter_ and _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_: Me no own.

**Story Title:** Why is a Raven like a Writing-Desk?

**Chapter Title: **Bored!

**Summary: **Sherlock Holmes was a logical man who didn't believe in nonsensical things like witches and magic. Which is why Hermione Granger came as such a surprise… other than the fact that he ended up falling in love with her, of course. That too came as rather a surprise. Sherlock/Hermione.

**Timeline: **June, 2010.

**Title Inspiration: **Take your pick. Sherlock complains that he's bored quite a lot. 

**AN: **Thank you so much to everyone who participated in my Albus-birthday-challenge, you guys had some really awesome ideas. The winning idea was by **Aki no hikari**, but there were others who had similar ideas and I felt it was only fair to let them see the sneak peak too. Additionally, there's an awkward scene at the birthday party where Mrs Weasley deeply disapproves of Hermione's new living situation, which was inspired by a comment left by the lovely **LionsWing**. Also, to my **100****th**** reviewer**, **Mary McGregor**, thank you so much, I really worry about characterisation, so comments like yours are much appreciated!

**Woohoo! Hit 100 reviews! You guys are just awesome. Thank you so much!**

.:~{+}~:.

**V: Bored!**

.:~{+}~:.

There had been a long, drawn-out, mostly one-sided argument the night that Sherlock gave her the phone and laptop, and the whole thing turned out to be infuriatingly redundant. After two hours of complaining at Sherlock and trying to convince him to take the electronic equipment back, he'd finally grown bored of her ranting and defeated her with logic.

There was no returning them. The receipts were destroyed. Not using them would not only be insulting, but a waste of money. And he seemed utterly uninterested in the idea of her paying him back, to the point where he almost seemed to find the idea ludicrous. She was beginning to become suspicious of the value he actually placed on money, and the idea was taking root in her mind that perhaps he had enjoyed a more privileged upbringing than most.

She couldn't even really complain to her friends about it in order to vent some of her frustration. When she'd been out in Diagon Alley with Ginny and a very heavily pregnant Hannah looking for birthday presents for Albus, she'd had to spend a frustrating amount of time first explaining what exactly a mobile phone and a laptop _were_. Once they had grasped the basics, they were highly unsympathetic, looking at each other with small shrugs, as if to say they didn't understand why Hermione was so upset.

"I don't know, Hermione, sounds to me like the guy did you a favour," Hannah commented, shifting a bit as she stroked the swell of her stomach. Her blue eyes were casually scanning over a set of board games. "Didn't you say everyone was suspicious of you not having those things? Now you have them and you didn't even have to spend any money!"

"Yeah, but he's not really the kind of man to do things like this out of the kindness of his heart, I don't think," Hermione said. "I feel as though I owe him something now. He said he doesn't want me to pay him back, but that doesn't mean there isn't something outside of money that he wants. He strikes me as quite Slytherin in some ways. Do you know what one of those text messages said? '_I need you to be available to me at all times_'. As if I were a trained dog at his beck and call! Argh, he's so- so-"

"Infuriating?" Ginny supplied, using the bored tone of someone who has heard the same complaint an extraordinary number of times.

"Frustrating?" Hannah said, using the same tone.

"Maddening, perhaps?" Ginny chimed.

"Or how about presumptuous?" Hannah teased.

Hermione wrinkled her nose in annoyance. "Oh, shut up, you two."

Her only response was laughter.

"Oh, Hermione, I'm sorry," Ginny said, seeing the annoyance on Hermione's face. "It's just so easy to wind you up, and he does such a _spectacular _job of it! It's hard not to tease, sometimes."

"It's certainly entertaining to hear you complain about him," Hannah said, shifting again with a slight wince.

"You okay?" Ginny asked her quietly. Hannah nodded, waving her off.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. At the stage where Braxton Hicks contractions have started setting in. Merlin, I hate them. I tell you what, I'll be so happy when Alice finally gets here and I can have my body back. It doesn't help it's so bloody _hot_ today."

Hermione made a noise of sympathy as she inspected a dragon teddy. It was charmed to move, and every few seconds it flapped its wings and puffed a smoke-like substance from its nostrils.

"Ooh, that's a good one," Ginny commented, pointing to the dragon. "He's trying to collect all the magical creatures- he doesn't have that one yet."

"Any others he doesn't have?" Hannah asked, blonde hair glinting gold in the afternoon sunshine as she tilted her head to inspect the teddies.

"You should go for the phoenix-"

Their voices faded as Hermione rounded the corner. She would, of course, get Albus the dragon teddy as she knew he wanted it, but she wanted to get something else to go with it. She knew Harry and Ron would tease her for giving yet another book as a gift, but she truly believed in the power of knowledge. How many times had it saved her life, Harry and Ron's lives when they were teenagers?

Though the good-natured part of her could quite easily admit that Albus probably wouldn't need any life-saving knowledge at the tender age of four.

Lips twitching in humour at herself, she began browsing, staying in the non-fiction magical creatures section. Even as a baby Albus had shown an interest in magical creatures. She wouldn't be at all surprised if it became a life-long interest.

Just as her eyes alighted on the perfect book, Ginny and Hannah rounded the corner.

"Oh! There you are!" Hannah exclaimed. "We wondered where you'd got off to."

Ginny peered at the book Hermione held. "Oh, Hermione! _The Children's Encyclopaedia of Magical Creatures_? That's what _I_ was going to get Albus!"

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Hermione said, holding the book out towards Ginny. "Here, you take it, I'll pick something else!"

Ginny laughed with a shake of her head, red hair gleaming copper. "Nah. Don't worry about it. I'll go joint with Harry. That's what we usually do anyway, but this year he got Albus the newest racing stick without consulting me first, and I knew he wanted that book."

"Oh, well, are you sure?"

"Yeah, it's fine. So long as someone gives it to him," Ginny reassured.

"I like how you seem to feel that Harry needs to 'consult' you on all his decisions," Hannah teased, looking amused.

Ginny, shameless as ever, simply tossed the other witch a mischievous smile and said in a conspiratorial tone, "well it's not as if the poor tosser can make them for himself."

Hermione snorted, shaking her head. "Now that's true love right there, Gin."

"Oh please, that's nothing," Hannah said. "You want to know about true love? When Neville and I got married, I changed my surname to Longbottom. _Longbottom_. Now that, my friends, is true love."

Laughing, Hermione and Ginny had to agree with her assessment.

.:~{+}~:.

When Hermione came home from Diagon Alley that day, Sherlock spent an unusual amount of time staring rather intensely at her with an expression that almost seemed confused. The whole time he stared it seemed as though a buzzing current was running straight through her veins, an uncomfortable mixture of _please look away_ and a tentative form of excited adrenaline. Was today the day? The day that he'd look at her and somehow _know_ that she was something different, something other, something _supernatural_? The idea of it was both terrifying and paradoxically thrilling in some awful-wonderful way that she couldn't quite define.

She tried to ignore her mixed feelings and thus him, going about her daily routine, chatting to Mrs Hudson, making tea, reading a book- he stared all the while.

When she finally made to leave Mrs Hudson's kitchen and go downstairs to her own flat, he was forced to stop staring. She understood the relief, but she wasn't all too sure that she wanted to examine the disappointment.

.:~{+}~:.

He was in a terrible mood today.

The bow wasn't scraping mercilessly over the strings as it sometimes did when he played the violin while angry, but the music was made of short, knife-sharp pulls, fast-paced and tumultuous. John had come down the day before and warned Hermione that Sherlock hadn't had a case in a week and was about to enter one of his 'black moods', as John called them, where boredom created in him an utterly unbearable monster.

She checked herself in the mirror one last time, quite pleased with the fact that she was still able to fit into a pair of jeans she'd had since she was twenty, before grabbing Albus' gifts and leaving her flat.

She was quite hoping to escape Sherlock's notice, what with the mood he was in today, but he noticed the second that her flat door opened. She heard a violent finishing SCREECH as she was locking the door (though she didn't know why she bothered, if he wanted to get in, he would. She supposed she could ward the flat, but his intentions weren't really malicious enough to warrant the suspicions that would cause-) and then heard his hurried footsteps across the floorboards. With a resigned sigh, she realized that she would not be able to avoid him.

Nevertheless, she began making her way to the main door, hoping for the quickest escape possible. She had almost made it when he appeared at the top of the stairs.

"God, please tell me that you're actually doing something _interesting_ for once in your pathetic little life-"

She turned, quite indignant, because he seemed to find her life _very_ interesting. Infuriatingly so. In fact, she wished he were less interested, because then perhaps he would pry a bit less!

She watched his eyes flick over her, the presents in her hand, and he visibly slumped in disappointment as a scowl settled over his face. "Oh. Child's birthday party. Boring."

Hermione crossed her arms defensively. "You think everything's boring."

"That's because _people_ are boring," he bit out nastily. "Like you, for instance, trying in vain to hold onto your youth-"

"What? _I am not_!" she retorted angrily, but he just kept speaking right over her.

"Look at those jeans, they must be at least ten years old! Colour's faded, wear and tear. Your hips have widened since you first bought them too, a bit tight in that area. Rather draws attention to the fact that they're disproportionately wide in comparison to your breasts."

Hermione gaped. "I- what? You… there is _nothing wrong_ with my proportions, thank you very much, you utter _arse_!"

He simply shrugged, completely unconcerned by her rage. "Oh, whatever, just go and be boring like you always are at your boring little birthday party," he muttered, looking very put out as he turned with a dramatic swish of his blue silk robe, stalking back into 221B.

Hermione stood there fuming, glaring up at the door, debating whether or not to march up there and give him a piece of her mind. She finally decided to just leave it. After all, seeing Albus would be much more enjoyable than fighting with Sherlock-in-a-black-mood-Holmes.

As she turned back to the door, her hand paused on the door handle. She battled with herself for a moment before stamping her foot in frustration and going back down to her flat to change. Because, well… these jeans _were_ a little tight.

And as she studied herself in the mirror in a lovely peach sundress that Ginny had gifted her with last year, she decided that Sherlock Holmes _certainly_ didn't need to know that she looked better in this outfit anyway.

.:~{+}~:.

There was lots of 'ooh's and 'ah's from the children as they gathered around the zoo employee. She was showing them a nest of baby Hippogriffs, and Hermione watched with a soft smile as Albus' green eyes widened with wonder, his mouth dropping into an 'oh' and his tiny hands reaching out to gently stroke the fluffy baby feathers.

Beside her, Ginny made a small noise and when Hermione turned to look, the redhead's eyes were filled with affection and her hands were clasped over her heart. "Look at my baby, petting the baby! Merlin, it's too adorable! Harry, where's the camera?"

Next to Ginny, Harry had been staring at his son with that stunned, awed look that he sometimes got when his children reached milestones, as though he couldn't believe that this was his life and that this wonderful, beautiful family was actually his; that those gorgeous children existed because of him. It was a look that always made Hermione want to grab a time-turner and make Harry's childhood a better one. But, of course, it was too late now, and who knows, perhaps if Harry hadn't grown up the way he had, things would be different, and not necessarily for the better.

Presently, he blinked and focused on Ginny. "Oh, right, camera."

There was a bit of fumbling and then lots of flashing as the camera went off and Hermione watched in amusement feeling like _they_ were the adorable ones, in such awe over their son's birthday party at the zoo.

"Oh dear, I hope they don't let too many of the wee ones crowd around. Baby Hippogriffs get quite nervous around large crowds…" a dreamy voice lilted. Hermione jumped a bit and turned to face Luna who, as ever, had appeared quite suddenly and silently, as though from the mists of some delicate dream.

"Oh, I- yes." Hermione stumbled. Even after knowing the other witch for half her life, Luna always managed to catch her off guard. "Well, I would assume that as employees, they'd know not to place too much stress on the creatures," Hermione managed to finish logically.

Luna hummed, and Hermione decided to take it as agreement, watching in slight bewilderment as the tiny blonde swayed ever so slightly on the spot, as though she were a blade of grass in the wind. As much as Hermione genuinely liked Luna, they would never be the best of friends. Luna was so incredibly open to absolutely anything and everything whereas Hermione clung to rules and facts and logic, and despite the vast sea of room between these two very different outlooks on life, understanding had never managed to grow between the two women. They were lucky enough however, to encounter acceptance from one another.

"So Ginny tells me your pregnant," she said, smiling. "Congratulations Luna, I'm really happy for you and Ron."

Luna turned to Hermione and absolutely _beamed_, her hand brushing her flat stomach softly. "Oh, thank you, Hermione. Ron was really quite worried how you'd take it, but I knew you'd moved on."

Hermione's pleasant smile froze a bit as she attempted to work out how to respond. "Oh… um, well, yes, I have."

Luna nodded delicately. "I could tell from Jupiter's alignment. It's a very forgiving alignment. It's wonderful, isn't it? This means you can be part of his life, the way you're a part of the lives of Harry's children. You're James' godmother, aren't you?"

As always, Luna sent Hermione's mind into a whirl of confusion. She responded as she usually did- by ignoring the parts that didn't make sense to her.

"I- yes, James is my godson. I'm sorry, you said 'his'? Isn't it too early to know if the baby's a boy?"

"Oh, I can tell," Luna asserted confidently. It's all in the way the wrackspurts act around me ever since I got pregnant, you see. They like to spin. If it were a girl, they'd dance around me in figure 8's."

Hermione blinked, genuinely feeling as if something in her brain had short-circuited with all the nonsense Luna was spouting.

_No, Hermione_, she reminded herself, _don't be prejudiced_. Luna was genuinely a magi zoologist now, and had discovered three new species of magical creatures. Though Hermione felt as though nargles and Wrackspurts and crumple-horned snorkacks were all absolute nonsense, there really was no telling with Luna.

"Erm… right then."

She turned back to face the birthday party, desperate to avoid further conversation. As much as she liked Luna, the two had never managed a conversation that didn't leave Hermione feeling confused and disturbed. Luna, for her part, simply started humming pleasantly, and once again began to sway.

.:~{+}~:.

"Ugh, stupid phone," Hermione muttered to herself, in the far corner of one of the rooms that the magical creatures zoo had designated for birthday parties. In most places that were heavy with the use of magic, her Muggle technology wouldn't work whatsoever; it hadn't when she'd gone to work and she'd received an endless stream of questions about why she hadn't responded to Sherlock's 'urgent' texts (though it turned out he'd only wanted her to buy toilet roll). But because the zoo was out in the country and was the only magical hotspot for miles, every once in a while her phone would triumphantly regain signal.

_15:02. Leave your boring child's birthday party and come spend time with me. I'll even take you to the morgue, if you like! SH_

She had spent a few minutes wondering why he thought going to the morgue would be a selling point before giving up. She had just finished typing out a text and clicked 'send' when she felt a hand tugging on her skirt at waist level.

_15:10. No. It's not boring, it's fun. And I don't want to go to the morgue. Why do you want to spend time with me, anyway? You never do when I'm actually home. I know you're bored, but I'm not your toy, Sherlock. Text John._

"Aunt Hermione, I haven't seen you in ages!" Victoire said, winding her arms around Hermione's middle. She smiled and hugged the ten-year-old in return.

"Hello, darling! I've been busy lately."

Victoire nodded in that knowing way that children sometimes adopt when they want to seem more knowledgeable than they actually are. "I heard Mum and Dad saying that you live with Muggles now! Is it terribly boring, not being able to do magic?"

Hermione's phone vibrated with another text from Sherlock and she snorted at the idea of life with that man ever being boring. "I still do magic Vic, just not in front of them," she said, glancing at the text.

_15:13. You really are ordinary, if you think a child's birthday party is more fun than going to the morgue. John's just as bad, what with his boring job. And of course I know you're not my toy. You're a human being. What would give you that idea? SH_

Hermione's lips curved in mild amusement as she looked at the word 'ordinary'. Oh, if only he knew, he'd never call her ordinary again. She shot off a quick text back.

_15:14. Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that you have basically admitted that you keep me around so I can be at your beck and call._

"What's that?" Victoire inquired, pointing to the mobile.

"This? Oh, it's a mobile phone. It's a bit like Floo calling in that it allows Muggles to hear each other's voices even when they're far away from each other."

"But you're not talking to anyone but me."

Hermione smiled at the confused look on the girl's face.

"Well, no, I'm texting, which is like the phone's built-in owl message service. See, look," Hermione leaned over and scrolled through her texts to Sherlock so that Victoire could see.

One thing that always amused Hermione was how differently witches and wizards reacted to Sherlock's name than Muggles. Muggles always got a look of startled surprise, whereas in the Wizard world, with names like 'Septimus' and 'Severus' and 'Bellatrix' popping up quite regularly, nobody was at all fazed. Neither was Victoire. When she wrinkled her nose at the messages, it was for an entirely different reason.

"Well he doesn't seem very nice, does he?" she asked huffily.

Hermione laughed at that. "No, he's not very nice at all. Quite entertaining, though."

"I think that all boys should learn to be nicer," Victoire grumbled, sending a venomous look in Teddy Lupin's direction. Hermione followed the glance with surprise, as Victoire had been looking at Teddy with stars in her eyes since she was four years old. The twelve-year-old was currently sat with James, Albus and George's son Fred, making silly faces and changing his hair colour for their amusement. Hermione felt a pang of loss as she remembered that his mother used to do the exact same thing.

"Right then, what's gone on?" she asked, taking note of Victoire's ever-growing sulkiness.

With a toss of her long silvery-blonde hair, Victoire gave a sigh of such irritated exasperation that Hermione had to fight hard not to smile.

"It's just that, ever since Teddy started at Hogwarts in September, he hardly pays any attention to me anymore! And he's my best friend, and he used to write _all the time_ when he first started, but then he started writing less and less, and now even though its summer holidays, he barely even looks at me! And whenever I ask to hang out he's always going off with his stupid Hogwarts mates."

Hermione nodded seriously, concluding that someone should probably speak to Teddy about this. Making new friends was one thing, but ignoring his old friends was quite another.

To Victoire she said, "Well, you knew that he was going to make new friends. And he's lived with them for an entire school year, so people quite often become close in those situations. Maybe next time you ask to hang out you can tell him that he can bring some of his new friends? If you become friends with them too, they'll probably invite you with them, and it won't be a 'me against them' situation. And if that doesn't work, you're best telling him that he's hurting your feelings. Sound good?"

Victoire stared at the carpet, shrugging. Hermione bumped playfully against her side. "I said, 'sound good'?" she sing-songed. Victoire looked up with a giggle and nodded, and Hermione laughed with her.

"What are you two giggling about over there in the corner?" Mrs Weasley called. "Get over here, you two, the birthday boy's waited long enough for his cake!"

As they made their way over, Hermione noticed the signal on her phone die.

.:~{+}~:.

As the children messily ate their cake, Hermione found herself stood between her ex-husband and her ex-mother-in-law. While she was on good terms with both, she wouldn't deny that there was a slight awkwardness there.

"Luna says you're pleased about the baby?" Ron ventured, looking at her with hope. She smiled softly at him.

"I am, I'm so pleased for you, Ron. I know how much you want children."

That sloppy, goofy grin that she was once in love with stole over his features, only now it did nothing but send a platonic warmth through her at his happiness.

"I can't wait, you know. Luna insists it'll be a boy. I really like the name Hugo, but she's not so keen on it. We haven't even started talking about girls' names yet, but I reckon if it were a girl she'd want to name it after her mum."

Hermione found herself touched by Ron's thoughtfulness. He'd never been so thoughtful when they were married. She wondered if it had been because they weren't right for each other, or if he had just matured since then.

"What was her mum's name?" Hermione asked.

"Selene," he said with a softening of his smile, as if he could see a little redhead named Selene in front of him right at that very second.

"Selene Weasley. That's really lovely, Ron."

"Oh it is, isn't it?" Mrs Weasley cut in, making Hermione jump slightly. She heard Ron snicker at her and threw him a mock glare. "I can't wait for the baby, you know! Oh, a grandchild!"

Hermione always found herself amused by Mrs Weasley's ramblings over how she needed more grandchildren, considering she already had ten, soon to be eleven.

"What about you, dear?" Mrs Weasley asked, maternally tucking a stray curl behind Hermione's ear. "What's going on with you? I hear you live in Muggle London now?"

There was a touch of concern in Mrs Weasley's voice, but as she couldn't identify the source of it, she shrugged it off. "Yes, I am," she confirmed with a smile. As infuriating as Sherlock could sometimes be, she was very happy with her living arrangements.

"I worry, you know. Not having any other magical folk around- what if you need something, or you get into trouble? How much are the Muggles capable of helping you?"

"Oh, well, actually, one of the men who lives above me works with the police. You know, the Muggle version of Aurors. And he's very intelligent- quite capable."

"Oh, right. How many live in your building, dear?"

"Just four of us. Me, the landlady and two men, Sherlock and John."

"Two men!" Mrs Weasley exclaimed, disapproval marring her features. "You live with two men!?"

Hermione blinked, quite bewildered by this reaction. "Well I… I have my own flat, it's not as though I live _with _them. And even if I did, it's the twenty-first century! Besides, I said a man lived above me a moment ago and you didn't seem to mind!"

"Well no, but I thought you lived in a block of flats! But your living situation is rather more intimate, isn't it? A pretty girl like you- you don't want them to go getting any ideas." She whispered the last part and Hermione flushed brilliantly, shocked perhaps more than she should be by Mrs Weasley's old-fashioned values.

"Mrs Weasley, I… we're all adults, we can control ourselves."

At that, Ron breaks out into loud guffaws next to her, and the children's attention is drawn to them. Hermione scowled and elbowed him. Hard.

Mrs Weasley continued muttering about how 'indecent' it was, and much as Hermione adored the woman as a mother figure, she wished she could elbow her too.

.:~{+}~:.

She felt her phone vibrate again as Albus was eagerly ripping open his birthday presents and concluded that her signal had made a reappearance. She glanced at the screen.

_15:22. I never said I wanted you at my beck and call. I said I wanted you available. You are not a toy. SH_

Hermione blinked at the message, some unidentifiable feeling rising in her. From most, it would be an unbearably clinical sentence, but she rather thought that it was one of the nicest things that Sherlock had ever said to her. She stared, fingers hovering over the keys, unsure how to respond.

"And, oh look, these are from Aunt Hermione!" Ginny's voice drifted over in that high pitch that she sometimes used when speaking to her children. Hermione's attention was brought back to the party, and she looked over to see Ginny handing Albus two presents tied together with a large yellow bow, one of them rectangular and the other larger and frumpy. Albus leaned forward in Harry's lap to receive it, looking so much like his father it was incredible.

He opened the teddy first, looking delighted with it as Hermione made her way over. He looked up at her with the adorably innocent grin that always managed to get him out of trouble. He lifted the book next, still neatly wrapped.

"Ooh, wonder what this could be?" she heard George tease from the onlookers. Everyone laughed, knowing Hermione's penchant for giving people books. She was very amused to see Angelina give her husband a sharp look, and for him to cower ever so slightly away from it.

But then she heard Albus gasp softly, and looked back to see that he had opened the book to the 'acromantula' page, a holographic version of the large spider scuttling around in the air above the pages. Albus looked absolutely fascinated with the image, and as he flicked through a few more pages, the spider folded back down into the book to make way for other holographic creatures.

"Wow," Albus whispered, his eyes huge with wonder.

Hermione turned and shot a smug look at George, who shook with silent laughter and lifted his hands in surrender to her almighty gift-giving abilities.

Albus slid off Harry's lap and hugged her legs. "Thank you, Aunt 'Mione," she heard him whisper into the skirt of her dress. She reached down and ruffled his eternally messy hair, smiling at the fact that he hadn't yet grasped how to pronounce her name. She remembered when James had gotten the hang of it, the very slight sense of loss that she felt for his toddler self.

You're welcome, Al."

.:~{+}~:.

It was during her redundant cab trip, on the way back to Baker Street, that she texted Sherlock back.

_16:50. Thank you. It's nice to know that you know that. I'm on my way back now, if you're still bored. I'll even let you take me to the morgue, if you like. _

She'd barely pressed 'send' when her phone vibrated again.

_16:51. No need- I've already been. If you don't mind decomposing tongues, I suppose you may come up to 221B. SH_

She snorted at the way he phrased the invitation. That arsehole could never just admit to wanting company, could he?

That didn't stop her from going upstairs instead of down to her own flat when she got home.

.:~{+}~:.

**Jeez, that chapter was long. Not sure how well it flows, so let me know if you feel like it's really choppy and I can edit. Largely based in the Wizard world. Next chapter will feature Sherlock heavily to make up for this one, scout's honour. As always, reviews are inspiring, and I adore them!**


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